


A Good Turn Daily

by HugeAlienPie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse of Canon, Alternate Universe - High School, Background Relationships, Boy Scouts, First Impressions, First Time, Hand Jobs, Loss of Virginity, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school's changing everything, and Steve <em>hates</em> it. Tony's missing; Bucky's spending all his time making out with Natasha; and Steve feels like the only virgin left at Shield High. At least his Eagle Scout project makes sense--until he signs up for Clint's mentorship program and gets assigned a gorgeous jerk of a mentor who challenges everything Steve thought he knew about himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Turn Daily

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/gifts).



> A couple months ago, I had two ideas for high school AUs I could write for Perpetual Motion for her birthday. I couldn't decide between them, so I wrote them both. ["Nonetheless, We Have the Will"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1076634) is the other. Both could be subtitled: "In which I do hideous things to Marvel canon and regret nothing."
> 
> Title from the Boy Scouts of America slogan.

"Uh, hey, Tony, it's Steve again. I'm sure you're fine. I'm not checking up on you or anything, 'cause you've been taking care of yourself--and me!--since you were 14, but, um. Pep's kinda worried about you, so maybe call her and let her know you're okay. Or you can call me, and I'll tell her. Yeah. That's, um...bye, Tony." Steve ends the call and flings his phone onto the table with a frustrated growl. _Pathetic._

Clint looks up from his tablet. "Anything?"

Steve shakes his head. "Five days now." He bends his attention back to his own tablet, scowling at the slight blur of the words. "Actually, don't tell her I told you, but Pepper's _really_ worried."

"Pepper is, huh?" Steve thinks maybe Clint is mocking him, but gently. "Where does he usually go?"

"Different places. Used to stay with Maria's parents, but they're kinda...fragile lately. They barely recognize us when we call. He's gone to Rhodey's a couple times, but since Rhodey started college it doesn't work as well." Steve rubs his forehead. "I don't think he's gone to any of his usual places. Which terrifies me, 'cause he could be _anywhere._ "

"Hey," Clint says softly. "He'll turn up. He always does."

Steve nods and strikes another couple words from his analysis. Tony _does_ always turn up, and has since the first time he skipped out, when Steve was 12. Steve can't find the words to explain why he's worried that, this time, his brother won't come sauntering through the door acting like Steve's the crazy one for caring.

Clint's phone buzzes. He looks at the message and hurls the phone onto the table. He attacks his tablet with renewed fury, grumbling under his breath.

"Another text from Natasha?"

"A _picture_. In front of...MOMA, I think it's supposed to be. 'Course, she only sends 'Yasha and Nataliya Xtreme Kissing Close-Ups', so they all look alike." He glares at his phone. "Foster bros before hos, jerkwad!" he yells at the blurry picture of Bucky.

"Jeez, Clint, I'm sorry."

Clint shrugs and won't meet his eyes. "It's fine. Whatever. What are you working on?"

"The proposal for my Eagle Scout project."

" _Again_? The thing was perfect three drafts ago."

"It's the only thing that makes sense right now," Steve admits.

"Hmm." Clint eyes him for a minute and then digs in his backpack, pulling out a dark blue folder with the Boy Scout logo on the front. "Jasper and I sorted out the mentoring assignments."

Steve's stomach lurches. "Oh, jeez, Clint, I'm not sure about this mentoring thing. I don't need it--"

"No, you don't," Clint agrees, "but other guys do but are too damned proud to admit it. Having the mighty Steve Rogers-Stark attached to the project may help people feel better about asking for help."

"All right, fine." It isn't fine, but he wants to be a good friend, so he asks, "Who's my mentor?"

Bouncing in his chair, Clint pulls a piece of paper from the folder and flips it toward Steve. It lands perfectly in front of him. "We totally cheated and gave you the best mentor. Jasper's friend Phil."

Steve studies the paper. Phil Coulson is a sophomore at Stony Brook, majoring in Political Science. He was a Scout in the same Council as Steve and Clint, but a different troop, and his Eagle project--"He started a mobile STD testing unit?"

Clint nods enthusiastically. "Jasper says this is the most amazing guy, like, ever."

Someday soon, Steve and Clint are going to have a long conversation about Clint's relationship with Jasper Sitwell, because despite claiming to be as straight as one of his arrows, Clint sure seems crazy about the guy. "If Phil's so great, why's he mentoring us instead of leading his own troop?"

"He can't," Clint says, attention back on his homework. "He's gay."

A little silence descends. It's no big, right? It's the 21st century in suburban New York; kids come out all the time. Their high school has a GSA; same-sex couples go to prom and homecoming; half the teachers have "Safe Space" stickers in their windows. It's just...it's no one they _know_ beyond a cursory nod in the halls. He suspects Tony may be as much into guys as girls, and Steve's had a few...moments, himself, but he's never talked about it with anyone. The casual way Clint mentions Phil's orientation is somehow more jarring than a big coming out announcement--especially since homosexuality is a sore topic in the BSA.

Steve swallows. "Okay. That's cool, I guess." He's got a lot to do, and now a mentor to meet. He doesn't have time to deal with unimportant shit. "Didn't life used to be easier?" he asks, more to the room at large than specifically of Clint.

Since Clint is the only other person _in_ the room at large, he's the one who answers. "Mine never was."

Steve admits he's pretty sure his wasn't, either.

*

Phil Coulson is punctual, and he dresses well. So far, those are the only nice things Steve can say about him. In the ten minutes since they met, Phil's insulted Steve's Eagle project, his Scout troop, and his troop leader. Not in so many words, but his near-constant frown and general air of prissy condescension say a lot.

And now the guy has to be messing with him. He'd asked if Steve had the manpower to build the ramp, and Steve'd responded along the lines of "my friends and Tony's robots", and now Phil's giving him the world's blankest look. "Tony," Steve repeats. "Stark." Not a flicker of recognition. "My brother."

Phil shrugs and returns his attention to the workbook. "I think I've heard of him. He invented some AI programming tool or something, didn't he?"

Unbelievable. A couple hundred thousand Boy Scouts in New York state, and Steve's stuck with the one who knows nothing about his life. "Something like that," he says without inflection.

Phil closes the workbook and slides it across the library table to Steve. "Well, that should be okay, then." He slings his backpack over one shoulder and stands.

Steve stares. "That's it?" he demands.

Phil shrugs. "Your workbook's set. Contact me if you need help. Otherwise, bring me the mentoring form when you're done, and I'll sign it."

"You haven't actually mentored me!"

"You obviously don't want it." Phil's face does something complicated that Steve can't sort out, and Steve sits back in his chair with a thud. Then Phil says, "I'll give you a ride home."

Steve starts to protest that he came by bus and can get back the same way, but the black clouds that had been rolling in all morning choose that moment to start pouring down rain. Steve sighs and nods. "Okay, thanks."

They don't speak all the way home, beyond Steve giving Phil directions. Phil's face gives an ugly twist when he pulls into the driveway, and when Steve says, "Thanks for the ride," Phil's "You're welcome" is strained.

Steve worries the strap of his backpack and chews his lower lip. "Aren't you going to tell me what you think of my project?"

Something flashes across Phil's face--almost regret, almost fear--but he shakes his head. "You don't want me to do that."

Steve's eyes narrow. "Why not?"

Phil's fingers flex around the steering wheel, the first tell he's displayed so far (Dad taught him and Tony how to watch for tells). "You just don't."

"Come on," Steve wheedles, unsure why. It's not like he gives a crap about this jerk's opinion.

"It's weak," Phil snaps, bringing his steel-blue gaze to bear on Steve. "If I was your troop leader, I never would've approved it."

Heat rages in Steve. Who the hell does this guy think he is? He's supposed to help with the implementation of Steve's project as written, not invalidate the entire premise! "Lucky you never will be, faggot!" Steve hears the words leave his mouth as though they came from someone else. What the hell? He never says that word! He _hates_ that word! "Phil--"

Phil leans across Steve and throws the passenger door open. And it's the stupidest thing-- _the stupidest_ \--but that brush of Phil's arm against Steve's chest sparks something electric inside of him that he's never felt before. He looks at Phil, his carefully styled brown hair and shuttered blue-gray eyes, the compact muscles obvious under his shapeless blue windbreaker, and he thinks, _Shit. This is a **terrible** time to confirm that suspicion._

"I get it," Phil says, his voice tight and chipped.

"You _don't_ ," Steve insists, and the voice doesn't sound like his.

"Better than you think," Phil says, and the way he looks at Steve, Steve believes him. Those eyes could, maybe, see a lot more than Steve thinks he's showing. "You're pissed you didn't get a yes-man who'll fall all over you because you live in White Plains, and who's not impressed by a couple pieces of planking nailed together for a bunch of rich biddies who don't need it. But if you think you can get rid of me by throwing homophobic slurs at me, you don't know me at all. I signed on to get you through your Eagle, and I'm going to do that if it kills us both."

Needless to say, when Steve gets out of the car and slogs toward the house, the rain feels like the least of his worries.

*

"The _nerve_ of that asshole!" Steve says for the millionth time in 24 hours.

"What did you expect?" Clint asks. "He's supposed to mentor you through the project and make it better, not pat your head and tell you it's already perfect."

"But it's already perfect!" Steve insists. Clint snorts.

They're in Clint and Bucky's rec room on Friday night, marathoning _Dog Cops_ and eating Bucky's mom's varenyky, fried pockets of deliciousness that make Steve feel like he's bathed his guts in vegetable oil. Pepper is tucked into the man-eating armchair (Day-Glo blue, thank you, 1980s), looking like she's trying to make herself as small and inconspicuous as possible, which isn't like her at all and tells Steve a lot about her mood. Clint sprawls at her feet on the fuschia area rug. Steve's at one end of the couch, and Bucky and Natasha curl around each other at the other, feeding each other varenykyand whispering things that turn Natasha's cheeks a faint pink and make Bucky squirm. Steve shoots Clint a sympathetic grimace.

Clint nibbles around the edge of a varenyk, all his attention on it. It's hard to tell who he's avoiding. "Phil must not think so," he says finally, though he doesn't look up.

"Phil!" Steve throws his hand in the air, splattering his sleeve with oil. "Phil is a stuck-up asshole with a stick stuck up his stuck-up ass."

They stare at him. Pepper breaks first, a tiny, helpless snigger that erupts into the first real laughter he's heard from her since Tony disappeared. He doesn't have it in him to resent that he's its cause. Then everyone else loses it, too.

"What's going on with that idiot brother of yours?" Bucky says as the laughter dies down.

Well, _that_ killed the mood neatly. Bucky winces, and Steve wonders if he realized his dick move on his own or if Natasha hit him. Pepper sniffles into her sleeve. Steve shakes his head. "No word. And his passport's missing."

Clint narrows his eyes. "You didn't tell me that."

Steve shrugs. "Just noticed today."

"How?" Bucky asks.

"I looked in the spot where he usually keeps it," Steve says. His chin juts, daring anyone to call him on the invasion of Tony's privacy. "It wasn't there."

"Where would he have gone?" Natasha asks. Steve gives a helpless shrug.

"Anywhere," Pepper says. "He could've gone anywhere in the world."

*

Pepper comes home with him when he leaves Clint and Bucky's place. They work on homework in Steve's room, but when she disappears after a bathroom break a couple hours in, he finds her in Tony's room, turning in a slow circle as though searching the walls for clues to his whereabouts. She turns when Steve clears his throat but doesn't look guilty. "I think I'm supposed to feel bad about searching his room while he's gone."

Steve shrugs and drums his fingers against the door frame. "I opened the door to that."

Pepper nods absently. She's pulled the sleeves of her butter-yellow sweater over her hands and wrapped her arms tight around herself. She looks small and fragile, and Steve shudders. Pepper Potts should look strong and confident, _always._ "This is the longest he's ever been gone," she says softly. Steve nods. "What if...what if he _can't_ come back? What if he wants to but something's--" She shakes her head and wipes her eyes with her cuff. "He could be anywhere," she says again.

Steve could give a million replies to that, and they pile up in his throat and refuse to be said. "Want to watch a movie?" are the only words he can get out of his mouth.

Pepper laughs roughly, like she understands the things he didn't say and why he didn't say them. "Sure."

They don't bother going to another room. Steve turns on Tony's stupidly large flat screen and queues up _Artois the Goat_. In less dire circumstances, watching it in Tony's room would be hilarious, because he always gripes about Steve and Pepper's shared taste in "indie foreign hipster crap".

They settle against Tony's headboard, Pepper tucking against Steve's side under his arm. "It was nice," she murmurs, "having Clint and the rest of them here. I've hardly seen them since Tony and I broke up."

Steve shrugs. "They've been wrapped up in their own drama."

"Ugh," she says, like all the words in the English language can't convey as much disdain as this one sound. Then her face falls, and she drops her forehead against his chest with a soft cry. "This is my fault."

"Hey. Hey, no." Steve tightens his arm around her. "Pepper, how can you even--"

"I had a date," she says, a little damply. "The night before Tony disappeared. Rhodey says the sight lines were wrong, but I think Tony might've seen us."

Steve closes his eyes and refuses to sigh. "You were on a date with Rhodey?" Obviously, Pepper can see whoever the hell she wants, but if Tony saw her on a date with his best friend, then, yeah. After all the other shit he's been through the past few months...well, Steve might've run away, too. Though probably not as far away as he's afraid Tony's run. And he'd have come back by now. So, not like Tony at all. And it's still not Pepper's fault.

He doesn't say it, because right now she won't believe it. Movie forgotten, he holds her while she cries, and at some point they fall asleep like that, so he wakes up the next morning in his brother's bed, holding his brother's ex-girlfriend, and if that's not a symbol of pretty much everything wrong with his life, nothing is. He just wishes he knew what the symbol _means._

*

Steve only keeps his Monday appointment with Phil because Dad drilled it into them that appointments could be rescheduled or cancelled but never skipped.

He goes to the library and wanders around the art books until his phone buzzes. Phil's text says, _I'm outside. I drive a maroon LeBaron_. So Steve's temper is already flaring when he sees Phil for the first time today. No one orders Steve Rogers-Stark around--certainly no one driving a _LeBaron_. He storms up to the car full of righteous indignation, and Phil throws open the door and says, "Get in."

Steve wants to say no. He wants to slam the door and find Clint and tell him this is an awful idea and he wants out of the mentorship. Or at least that he wants a mentor who'll treat him like a human being, rather than a...whatever Phil's treating him like.

Then he considers how much Clint has riding on the success of the mentorship program. He'll do this for his friend, but he's gonna fill the hell outta that evaluation form, and he's going to tell Clint how much work he needs to do to improve the matching.

Steve gets in the car, and when he glances over, Phil seems...nervous. "Where are we going?" Steve asks.

Phil's voice is tight and his words clipped when he answers, "To show you something I don't like to share with people." Phil smiles, a sharp, fleeting thing. "But since you've already said the worst thing people usually say to me, I figured I'd take my chances."

Steve swallows, anger deflating instantly at the memory of what he's done. "Phil, I'm so sorry I said that," he says, though the words are inadequate atonement. Words in general seem inadequate. "I have no idea why I did. I don't have a problem with you being gay. My brother might be bi." He touches his chest where Phil's arm brushed it and blurts, " _I_ might be kinda bi."

And, oh, god, the _silence._ He risks a glance over, but Phil's attention is fixed on the road. He's got a thoughtful look on his face but otherwise gives no indication he's registered Steve's verbal spewing. Steve drops his head against the headrest. He refuses to think of the ways this day could get worse, because _they would all happen_.

Steve startles when something lands in his lap. He looks down, and it's Phil's iPhone. Ugh. Non-Stark tech. "Navigate, will you?" Phil says, not really a question. Steve glances at the screen and barely surpresses a groan. Wherever they're going is two towns over. This is going to be a very uncomfortable drive.

Desperate for anything normal to talk about, Steve says, "So, uh...how's Stony Brook?" And then winces.

Phil snorts and grips the steering wheel tightly for a second. "Nothing you need to worry about," he says.

Steve's eyes narrow. "What's that mean?"

"It means a guy with your money isn't going to Stony Brook, so you don't have to pretend you care what it's like."

"Okay," Steve snaps, turning slightly, "you met me _once_ , and you act like you know everything about me, but you're _wrong._ I have _no idea_ where I'm going to college; the money's mostly my brother's; and I was _trying_ to be polite and make conversation, something you don't seem to know anything about."

In the tense silence, Phil drums his fingers on the steering wheel. Then he nods. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Steve blinks. "What?" He's lived most of his life surrounded by Starks. He's not used to apologies.

Phil gestures at his phone. "Can you send a text for me?"

"Uh, sure." Steve swipes through to the message screen.

"Send it to Gracelyn. Tell her: change of plans; we'll be by on Thursday--are you free Thursday?"

Steve thinks about his schedule. "Should be."

"OK. Change of plans; we'll come Thursday."

"Where were we going?"

"Someplace we're not now."

Steve sighs and sends the message. "Where are we going instead?"

Phil smiles for the first time since they met. It makes him look...uh, pretty cute. "Someplace we can be polite and make conversation."

Breakers is a 24-hour dive diner that Steve knows only by reputation--and not a good one. He tries not to gawk as he and Phil settle at a table in the back corner, but, crap, he feels out of place. Some of the patrons look like students from the nearby community college getting some studying in, but they're a minority. The gouged tabletops and cracked floor tiles, the obviously homeless guys nuring cups of tea over endless games of chess in the middle of the room, the sign over the counter that says, "NO SLEEPING"--there's a level of poverty here that he's never been exposed to. And Phil seems _so_ at home that Steve wonders what sorts of gaps are between them that he hasn't noticed.

Phil waves at the counter. "What do you want?"

"Uh..." Steve cranes his neck toward the overwhelming menu board.

Phil huffs a small, understanding laugh. "The best thing is the floats. They have, like, twenty soda flavors and make their own ice cream."

Steve perks up at the thought. "Orange?" he asks hopefully.

"Done." He walks away, and Steve is about to protest Phil buying when Steve probably has more money in his wallet than everyone else in the place combined, but he remembers when he didn't, his proud refusal to accept handouts. He leans back in his chair, worries the drawstring of his hoodie, and tries to be patient.

The noise that comes out of Steve's mouth at the first taste of his float wouldn't be out of place in an amateur porno. He stares at Phil, who stares back, turning an adorable shade of pink. "Oh my _god_."

Phil clears his throat and worries the straw of his strawberry float. "Yeah." He stares at the table for a minute. When he looks up again, his blush has faded, and Steve shouldn't miss it so much. "Hi." Phil folds his hands on the tabletop. "My name is Phil Coulson. I'm 19, a sophomore at Stony Brook, Poli Sci major. I'm hoping that'll position me for a Public Health Administration grad program. My mom does boring statistical analysis stuff for the county, and Dad's in construction. I'm the second of four--two brothers and a sister--and I like camping, hiking, and Art Neauveau." He makes a cute little grimace. "Even I'm not sure where that came from."

Steve nods. He can do this. His small talk is second only to Tony's. "Hi, Phil," he says, "I'm Steve Rogers-Stark. I'm 17, a junior at Shield High School, so, no major, obviously. I like drawing and painting, but that's not practical, so I'll probably end up in architecture or graphic design or something. My parents are dead, and I have a brother who's been missing for a week and a half. I like camping, sailing, _Invasion Manhattan,_ and, um...Big Band music. Which I know is weird."

Steve braces himself, waiting for Phil's look of pity and empty condolences about his parents, but Phil just gives him a small but genuine smile that Steve needs to see _constantly_. "Good. That's good. That's a good start," Phil says sincerely.

"How did you find this place?" Steve asks. Looking at Phil again, it seems incongruous. Phil's clothes aren't high-end, but they're decent quality and fairly new, and the LeBaron (though embarrassing in and of itself) is in great condition.

Phil's lips thin, but it looks to Steve like old pain. "Coming out to my parents involved a lot more yelling than I'd expected. This is a great place to spend 24 hours when you storm out of your house with only your bus pass and a ten-dollar bill."

"Huh," Steve says, shifting his mental image of perfectly-in-control Phil to accommodate that sort of anger.

Phil shifts in his chair, bending his straw back and forth. He's played with the straw more than he's drunk from it, and Steve finds it painfully distracting. Why couldn't he have confirmed his bisexuality via a passing wave of lust for a hot athelete or movie star? Why did he have to develop _feelings_ for a stuck-up college sophomore who barely likes him? Steve knows he's not bad-looking--finally caught a break with that three-inch growth spurt last summer, and starting crew has helped with both muscle mass and general health--but Phil seems pretty out of his league.

"Can I ask you something?" Phil asks. Steve shrugs. "You kept talking like I should know who your brother was, so I kind of...Googled him?" He looks sheepish, but Steve gestures for him to keep going. Googling is far from the worst thing anyone's done to Tony. "I found this picture of him with your parents, and, okay, I understand recessive genes, but you don't look _anything_ like them."

Steve snickers. He fishes his wallet from his backpack and carefully extracts the picture of his mom in its protective sleeve. "You saw Tony with our dad and _his_ mom--my stepmom." He holds the picture out to Phil. "This is my mom."

Phil studies the picture, and Steve feels inexplicably pleased, because Phil seems to be really looking, really _seeing_ his mom. "You look a lot like her," he says.

"Yeah." Steve swallows hard and puts the picture back.

"I'm sorry," Phil says quietly. "It's none of my business--"

"No, it's fine." The crazy thing is, he wants to tell Phil the story. And he _never_ wants to tell the story. "Okay, Mom was super independent. She and Maria--Tony's mom--were friends from way back, and after Maria married Dad, he and Mom got close, too. So when Mom decided she wanted a baby but not a husband, they all talked it out, and Dad agreed to be her sperm donor."

"Wasn't that weird?"

"Actually, it was great for everyone. Mom got a kid; Dad got to see me sometimes but wasn't obligated to me; and my best friend was my half-brother. Mom died when I was 12. Pulmonary embolism. Dad and Maria adopted me."

"You changed your last name then?"

Steve nods. "It felt right, reclaiming part of myself I hadn't known I'd been missing."

A shadow crosses Phil's face, and Steve braces himself for the question he knows is coming. "And when they died?"

Steve's eyes close, and he holds onto the table and tries to breathe through the wave of memories and emotions that floods him. "A year ago. Dad and Tony...they hadn't been getting along for a couple years by then. Tony is _so smart_ , and for some reason Dad had this huge blind spot about him. Couldn't see he was acting out because he was _bored._ Or, I thought he was bored. After they died and Tony started falling apart, I realized he was mostly trying to get Dad's attention."

"Did you say he's missing?" Phil asks gently.

Tears prick hot and hard against Steve's eyes. "For a week and a half. I oughtta call the police, but then they'll know we've been living on our own since Dad and Maria died, and they'll call CPS, since I'm not 18, and--after the accident, we had this emancipated minors thing done, but it's not--" He grips his glass hard. "For some reason, Tony had Obie's lawyers draft it, not Dad's, and Obie was Dad's right hand, and Tony idolizes him, but I've never trusted him, and I'm not eager to find out how well that document'll stand up in court." Steve looks up and isn't ashamed for Phil to see his tears. "But I'm so scared for him."

Phil waits. He doesn't turn away and pretend he doesn't see Steve's distress, but he doesn't try to soothe him or make it better. After a minute, he says quietly, "I'm just a guy you barely know, but if I can do anything, tell me."

Steve smiles. He feels genuinely grateful, which he's not used to. "Thanks," he says sincerely.

"So...Big Band?" Phil asks. Steve laughs.

They stay at Breakers' for two hours. They talk about the crazy shit Steve and Tony have gotten up to together; Steve's suspicion that his history teacher, Ms. Carter, is a spy; Phil's badass roommate Nick, his toolish ex-boyfriend Johnny, and Jasper's scarily competent girlfriend Maria--everything _except_ Steve's Eagle project. By the time Phil drops him back home with a smile, a quick squeeze of his hand, and a promise to pick him up Thursday after school, Steve's more relaxed than he's been since before Tony disappeared.

The feeling evaporates the instant he walks inside and finds Jarvis hovering in the foyer. "Master Steven," he says softly.

Steve fights against the hopeful racing of his heart. "Did you hear from Tony?"

Jarvis would never do anything as blatant as frowning, but the gentle concern in his eyes answers well enough. "I'm sorry, sir, no. I was merely wondering...it appears Miss Pepper has...moved into Master Anthony's room."

Steve blinks. He hadn't realized that, which seems funny--you should notice if your brother's ex is living in his room, right? But he supposes, between Clint's Natasha woes and his own freak-out over Phil, he hasn't had time for the little things.

With a start, he realizes that Jarvis is still looking at him. Oh, god, Jarvis is waiting for Steve to give him _instructions_. He's so not qualified to be head-of-household. Sighing, he rubs his hand over his hair and tries to cobble a coherent plan together. "Well, uh...I think she has a bunch of stuff left over in Tony's _en suite_ from when they were dating. And you have a card on her food preferences in the kitchen Rolodex, right?" He smiles sheepishly at Jarvis. "I think that's good for now."

Jarvis' expressions are usually subtle--it's a butler thing--so the smile he gives Steve is like walking into bright sunlight after months in the dark. " _Very_ good, Master Steven," he says proudly before walking away.

Steve thinks he handled the situation pretty well, but he stands on the door mat for a minute, head bowed, fists lightly clenched, and whispers, "Come home _right now_ , Tony."

*

**TheAmazingHawkeye:** emergnecy waffels! X

Steve sighs at the text and ducks down President Street. With Clint, "waffel emergnecy" and "emergnecy waffels!" (he can never spell either word right) mean two very different things--and "emergnecy waffels" is the bad one.

If you're under 21 and geeky in Bellhaven, the X Marks the Spot Café--known locally as "the X"--is _the_ place to hang. Half the fun is surviving the ideosyncratic staff, from the owner, who knows what you want before you've looked at a menu, to the surly prep cook whose knives move so fast they look like they're part of his hands.

Clint is standing outside the front door, stomping his feet and blowing into his hands. He _has_ a coat and hat and gloves. He also has, as he tells it, "stubborn Iowa pride" and refuses to wear them after Valentine's Day, no matter how cold it is. He grins a brief greeting at Steve and flees inside.

Their favorite booth is free; the slide into it and begin their routine. Steve flips his coffee mug upside-down and moves Clint's water glass next to his own. Clint sets his coffee mug near the table's edge, switches the silverware to the opposite sides of his placemat, and starts some complex origami with the 'this is decaf' doily.

Steve is glad to discover that their server is the one Clint calls 'Mary Poppins' (he can't keep their names straight and has assigned them codenames, which Steve would feel bad about if they weren't so funny), though a nametag check confirms that her name is Justine. She's one of their favorites. She knows when to chat for a minute and when they'd rather be left alone. She cracks jokes with Clint and Bucky, takes none of Tony's shit, and has, Clint swears, a magic apron. No matter what they ask for--extra napkins, another fork, a pepper shaker--she has it in the pockets of her server's apron. She always finds it right away, too, never has to look--like she's creating it on the spot, stupid as that sounds. Clint and Bucky have made a mission of asking for the most ridiculous stuff, but Steve discourages that, because he wants The X to stay off the short but humiliating list of local joints he's banned from (all Tony's fault but one, and the thing at the Orange Julius was a _complete_ misunderstanding).

Justine retreats after giving Clint his coffee and the agave syrup packet he asked for but won't use. Steve and Clint sit in tense silence for a moment. Then--"They had sex," Clint announces, focused on his oragami. "Natasha and Bucky. They had sex last night. First time. Nat gave me the blow-by-blow this morning--pun totally intended."

"Crap." Steve exhales sharply and flops against the booth. "I'm sorry, Clint."

"It's not like--" Clint puts the coaster-cum-hippopatomus on the table and shoves his hands through his hair, trying to put words together. "She's with him; I lost my chance; blah blah regretcakes. Whatever. I don't care. I'm...happy for them, I guess. But I don't want the sordid details. She's treating me like--okay, you know in ancient wherever, how dudes used to make the eunuchs guard their harems?"

It's always surprising to learn what Clint's retained from school.

"And the concubines would dish the dirt about their sex lives to the eunuchs, because the eunuchs weren't supposed to care. Like, once the guys were castrated no one thought they thought about sex anymore."

 _Really_ surprising.

"That sucks," Steve says. "What're you gonna do?" Clint cocks his head, puzzled, and he adds, "About her telling you about it. If you don't let her know you're uncomfortable, she'll make you her BFF and keep telling you about it."

"Yeah." Clint slumps and fiddles with his straw wrapper. "I dunno. Maybe I'll talk to Bucky instead."

Steve's not sure that's the greatest idea; Bucky's a good friend, but he can be a shit when he feels like it, and this seems like a time he'd feel like it. But his relationship with Clint is way more complicated than Steve can parse, so if Clint feels that's the way to go, Steve will support him. Steve pushes the agave packet around the table with the tines of his fork. "You ever feel like you and I are the last virgins left at Shield?"

The look on Clint's face--like he's been caught with each hand in a different cookie jar--would be hilarious if it didn't want to make Steve bang his head against the table. "Uh...yes?"

Steve stares hard. "Seriously, Clint? Who? When? Why didn't you tell me?"

Clint scrinches his eyes up. "Um...Bobbi Morse, after the Winter Formal, because that's rude?"

Steve's mind whirs. "You went to the Winter Formal with Natasha."

"Well, _yeah_ ," Clint says patiently, "and she left with Bucky. So I was pissed and dateless, and Bobbi had come stag with Sue Storm, who left with Frowny-face Richards. And, you know. There we kinda were."

 _Ridiculous_ , Steve thinks. High school drama at its finest. And then something inside him sort of...collapses. _Yes_ , it's high school drama. Because he's _in high school._ Phil won't want anything to do with this.

It's this realization, more than anything else--more than electrical contact and adorable blushes and honest conversations in dingy coffee shops--this sudden understanding that he isn't feeling a flash of lust or ordinary infatuation, that he _cares_ what Phil thinks of him and his friends, cares if Phil considers him someone worth spending time with in the long run--that makes Steve realize he's screwed.

Steve's forehead thunks onto the table, landing in a drip of syrup that fell off his plate. After a moment of strangled silence, Clint's hand pats awkwardly at the top of Steve's head. "Hey, man, it's okay. You can't be the _only_ virgin in the whole school."

Trying to explain that that's not his problem doesn't seem worth the effort. Because if he says it, Clint will want to know what his problem _is_ , and he's not willing to confess it yet.

Hell, he's not even willing to look at it fully.

*

Steve isn't sure what he's been expecting on Thursday, but after a 45-minute drive they pull up behind a truck with the same body as the bloodmobile that comes to SI HQ every other month. This one's painted a calming sky blue and says "Westchester County Mobile STI Testing" in silver lettering on the side.

Steve follows Phil into the truck, and the situation goes from unexpected to surreal. Inside, the truck is...well, 'homey' is the only word for it. From the outside, the windows are opaque. Inside, they look like normal windows--with crocheted curtains, for pity's sake. Two men and a woman wait for testing (Steve assumes) on a row of well-padded theater seats. Smiling volunteers distribute homemade-looking cookies and juice to people exiting the curtained-off testing cubicles. Steve remembers when this thing started up; a lot of his classmates' parents called it proof of the county's declining morals. If declining morals brings cookies and curtains, it seems like a good deal.

An African-American woman in fuscia scrubs approaches Steve, shaking her head. "Lordy, they get younger every day." She reaches for his elbow. "Come on, sugar, let's get you through intake."

"Gracelyn," Phil says, smiling, "Steve's not here for testing. He's the friend I said I was bringing by. " With a start, Steve realizes it's true: after their talk at Breakers, he _does_ consider Phil a friend. He can't stop the rush of warmth that floods his body--a hundred times more when Phil takes his other elbow to draw him away from Gracelyn.

Gracelyn hums and crosses her arms. "Show him around, then, but stay out of our way, hear? It's busy today."

Phil smiles wider. Steve's knees _do not_ wobble. "Yes, ma'am."

Phil introduces Steve to two other nurses, and intake administrator, and two canteen volunteers ("We don't need a canteen, but cookies calm people down."), whose names Steve promptly forgets. Then Phil leads him toward three narrow doors at the back of the truck. Two are bathrooms. The third reads "K. McCoy, Legal Counsel." Phil knocks and, when a woman's voice calls them in, opens the door outward.

All the closets in the Stark house are bigger than this office. There's barely enough room between the small desk and the wall for K. McCoy, Legal Counsel, to squeeze past, and Steve can put his hands on one of the visitors chairs in front of the desk without leaving the doorway. But there's a fairly large window and a lot of vases of cheerful cut flowers tucked into the precarious shelves of law books. And there's the woman herself, regarding them with a bright smile and _very_ sharp eyes. "Phil," she says. "What trouble have you brought me today?"

"Just showing my friend around. Steve, our lawyer, Kate."

Steve frowns. "Why do you need a lawyer?"

Kate folds her hands on the desk and gets the look of a woman about to deliver a well-worn spiel. "Positive diagnosis for STIs has a lot of repercussions. Concerns about how families and employers will react, how much the law requires them to reveal and to whom. The need, in some cases, for wills and medical directives. I tell everyone to hire a lawyer, but it's nice to have someone nonjudgmental who'll listen right away and has an informed opinion on the matter."

Steve nods and looks at Phil. "Was that your idea?"

Phil blushes. "Pretty much everything here was my idea," he says like it's a shameful admission. It's...adorable.

Steve can't help it. He can't really can't help asking, "And this is your _office_?"

Kate laughs and waves her hands as if indicating an opulent palace. "The glamorous life my mother imagined when she sent me off to law school." She looks around the minuscule office and smiles. "And I wouldn't change a second of it." She gives them a softer smile. "Maybe it's cliché, but that doesn't make it less true: find work you love, and even a closet feels like a palace. Now git." She makes shooing motions at them. "Some of us have work to do."

They wave their goodbyes and return to Phil's car. All the way home, Steve pelts Phil with questions about how he got the truck and how they maintain client confidentiality and did the dinosaurs on the county commission really approve this? Phil takes it in stride, answering every question with a blunt honesty that Steve's starting to appreciate. Phil isn't rude, Steve sees now; he just doesn't see the point of the conversational niceties that are the Stark clan's natural habitat.

Maybe some of that frankness is rubbing off on Steve, or maybe he realizes, despite Phil's obvious pride in the testing unit, how vulnerable he's made himself by sharing it, or maybe he looks at Phil and literally _cannot stop himself_. The instant Phil parks in Steve's driveway, Steve leans over--doesn't bother unbuckling his seatbelt--and presses his lips to Phil's. He pulls back almost as soon as he's made contact, fingers spasming around his seatbelt. "I'm sorry," he gasps. "I'm so, so sorry; that's not something you do without asking first, and I didn't mean to--I'm going to go. Bye." Steve grabs for the door handle and has almost made it work when Phil's hand closes around Steve's other wrist and _yanks_.

Phil kisses with fierce determination and full attention, and Steve's brain feels fuzzy. Phil's fingers still hold Steve's wrist; Steve rests his other hand on Phil's bicep. Phil makes an appreciative sound that sets Steve's nerves sparking. Emboldened, Steve swipes his tongue against Phil's lips. Phil makes the sound again, louder, _deeper_ , and it startles Steve, who pulls back, panting. "Um," he says. Phil gives him a look, half amused, half challenging, half nervous (no, wait). But he also looks half undone with _wanting,_ and Steve feels a surge of confidence unlike he's ever known, because _he did that_. He beams, and Phil smiles gently back. "Hey," Steve says, "the gang's coming over tomorrow night for homemade pizza and _Invasion Manhattan_. Wanna come?"

"That sounds great."

Steve's heart's about to thump out of his chest, and his hands shake like a hummingbird (which, dumb simile. Brainpower rerouted...elsewhere). "Great," he says. "Come by at 7?"

Phil nods. "I'll be there."

And Steve can't _not_ kiss him again, twisted awkwardly in the seat, gearshift poking into his ribs, and he doesn't care, it's _perfect_ , everything's _perfect_ , Steve's problems melting away for that single, suspended moment.

By the time Steve stumbles out of the car, Phil's lips are bright red and swollen, his expression dazed. Steve feels like he could conquer the fucking world--haul Tony's sorry ass home, finish his Eagle project, sort out Clint's problems with Bucky and Natasha--but he's 17. He'll probably lay on his bed and jerk off to throughts of the way Phil looks right now.

That seems like a perfectly valid use of world-conquering powers.

*

The security cameras show Phil buzzing in at the gate at 7:00 exactly. Then he sits in his car for five minutes. Steve laughs as he watches the feed. Two days ago, this would've bugged the crap out of him: Phil being congenitally punctual and _pretending_ to be fashionably late (and thinking five minutes counts as 'fashionably late'). But the more time they spend together, the more Steve suspects that, for all his confidence in formal settings, Phil struggles with interpersonal relationships. Two days ago it would've aggravated Steve; today he thinks it's sweet.

The instant Phil's through the door, Steve's pressed up against him, leaning in for a kiss that heats up _fast_. Phil tangles one hand in Steve's hair and works the other under his shirt, earning a startled gasp that Phil ruthlessly exploits to get his tongue into Steve's mouth. Steve grabs Phil's bicep, and his other hand lands on Phil's ass, hauling him closer.

Steve wrenches away when he runs out of air, and they grin stupidly at each other. Phil looks around. "Am I late? You said 7."

"I did." Steve lets go of Phil's arm to scratch the back of his neck, forgetting Phil's hand is already there until their fingers collide. Smiling, Steve twines their fingers together and lowers both hands to his side. "I told everyone else 8."

Phil looks at him with complete solemnity. "The Boy Scouts of America encourages strategic thinking," he says, and Steve laughs, loud and bright, and feels lighter than he has since Tony took off.

Steve tries not to shudder at the feel of Phil's thumb stroking the small of his back. "Do you want a tour?" he asks.

Phil makes one deliberate swipe that brushes the waistband of Steve's jeans, and Steve's shudder breaks free. "I do not."

"Thank _god_ ," Steve mutters. He turns and hauls Phil through the dining room so he can holler, "Going upstairs, Jarvis! No interruptions 'til everyone shows up!" into the kitchen before they head up the stairs.

Steve doesn't spare a second's worry for the state of his room. He's always kept his living space military-neat, which had disappointed Mom, free-spirited bohemian artist that she was. Plus, if Phil's paying attention to the _room_ , Steve's doing this wrong.

Phil's hands are cool but heating rapidly against Steve's skin, his lips searing against Steve's. Steve flounders for an instant when Phil tips them over onto the bed but can't complain when he lands on his back with Phil on top of him, Phil's knees on the mattress bracketing Steve's thighs, forearms curled to either side of Steve's head. Phil presses fiery kisses against Steve's jaw and down his neck. He lifts his head to return to Steve's mouth--and freezes.

Steve groans. He knows exactly what Phil's seen. "Phil," he whimpers, " _please_." He gives his hips a desperate upward thrust, and Phil gasps, but his gaze doesn't move from Steve's headboard.

"You built a model," he says.

"Phil..."

"You built a perfect architechtural model of the wheelchair ramp nobody needs."

"Okay, off. _Off_." Steve shoves Phil's shoulders, and Phil slides off, laying beside him on the bed. "If you're going to be like thatabout it-- _again_ , instead of other things we _could_ be doing--"

Easy as breathing, Phil reaches over and takes Steve's hand, thumb sweeping gently across the knuckles. He fights an insane laugh, because _of course_ Phil would bypass the giant crazy pile of mess that Steve's become and do what needs to be done. That's how Tony deals with the world, too, except that Tony's version of doing what needs to be done often ends with the basement catching on fire, while Phil's version has made everything _perfect_. Steve beams, anger vanishing, and Phil smiles back.

"We had a rough start," Phil concedes, "but I'm not the Eagle Scout police. If this is what you want your project to be, I'll help you make the best damned wheelchair ramp this town's ever seen. I just want you to ask yourself why you chose it."

Steve squints. What does he mean, _why_? "The church isn't wheelchair accessible."

Phil nods. "Does anyone in the congregation use a wheelchair? Or leg braces or anything like that?"

"Well, no, but that's not the point. It has to be accessible in case anyone needs it. We can't say, 'No one in the congregation needs it, so the church doesn't need it.' What if someone's been thinking of joining but can't because they can't get inside?"

Phil make this funny face, and Steve's sure he's trying not to laugh. "St. Margaret's?" he asks and shakes his head. "Nobody's avoiding your church because it's not wheelchair-accessible. Nobody gets into that place who's not invited. If anybody's rich friend needs a ramp, it'll be there before the first Sunday they show up."

Steve grits his teeth at 'anybody's rich friend', but he gets what Phil's saying. Still. "That doesn't mean it's not important."

Phil makes a 'maybe' motion with his head. "Debatable. What interests me is whether it's important to _you_."

"I chose it as my project, didn't I?"

Phil stares at him for a long minute, weighing something. "Okay, look," he says. He fumbles at his pocket and pulls out his phone. He swipes through a couple screens and holds the phone out. There's a picture, looks about two years old, of Phil and a girl of about ten with shining blue eyes, a broad smile, and the unmistakable features of a kid with Down syndrome. "That's Emmy," Phil says. "She's the best little sister in the world. So Down's research and education are a big thing for my family. When it came time to choose my Eagle project, my Scout master didn't even ask what I wanted to do--just assumed it would be something Down-related. But I'd just come out, and I was seeing how LGBT people get treated in this area. I had all this _passion_ about it, but for two months I forced myself to work on something else, because I'm 'one of the Coulson kids', and everybody knows Down's is our shtick."

Steve purses his lips. He gets what Phil's saying, but that's not _him_. Only he shuts down the phone screen, and the reflection he sees is so startlingly like Dad that he blurts, "Dad and my brother are atheists. And, I mean, that's fine, but--" He glances up, but Phil just looks expectant, waiting for him to continue. "Tony's on record saying some pretty nasty stuff about religion. I've gone to that church all my life, with Mom and Maria. I need--I _want_ to remind people that some Starks are fine with God."

For a moment, there's silence. Phil takes back his phone and drops it on the quilt. Then he gives a small smile that makes Steve's insides melt. "Okay," Phil says. "Cool. If that's enough for you, it's enough for me, and we'll make sure your church gets a great wheelchair ramp. But--" He gives Steve a hard stare. "--I know what you've been talking about all week, and it's not God or religion or accessibility at St. Margaret's."

Steve's cheeks flush. "My brother's not an Eagle project."

"No," Phil agrees, chuckling, "but you've talked about him the most. There must be something--"

"You know," Steve says carefully, "not everyone can start an entire mobile testing thingie."

Phil ducks his head. "I know. I didn't." Steve's eyes widen, and Phil waves his hand. "My _actual_ Eagle project was drawing up the business plan and presenting it to the county commissioners--who I expected to say no. After they shocked the hell out of me by approving it, I spent the next year making it happen. You don't have to build Rome, Steve. Just, if you've got ideas, show me the blueprint."

"Tony was bored." Jeez, how does Phil make Steve spew stupid words at him? "Dad got him best tutors, but he needed _people_. Maria put him in this after-school program for gifted kids to socialize, but..." He shakes his head at the memory. "It was called the Hydra Program, and it was _horrible_. They pitted the kids against each other, made them prove who was smartest, and then, I swear--we could never prove anything but Tony and I both thought it--they were stealing the ideas--from junior high and high school kids!--and doing God-knows-what with them." He shivers. "Tony got out as soon as he could, and it wasn't soon enough for me." He leans forward, and Phil mirrors the motion. This puts them _very_ close, and Steve leans a bit more to kiss Phil--a small kiss, but enough to set his nerve endings on fire. He grabs desperately at his train of thought. "He needed a place to hang out with other genius kids without having to compete or collaborate or do anything besides _be_ with other people who get what it's like to be that smart. You know?"

Steve flops back and stares at the ceiling. That was exhausting. He kinda hates that he's proven Phil's point for him, but he's so excited it's hard to stay upset. He smiles bashfully, and Phil's smirk turns into a smile that lights up everything in Steve.

"Yes," Phil says. "That's what I've been waiting for. Come on," he says and sits up, keeping hold of Steve's hand. "We've got a project workbook to rewrite."

Steve blinks up at him. "Right now?"

Phil looks around like he's forgotten he's laying on a bed with a horny 17-year-old. He laughs and pivots, swinging a leg over Steve to straddle his waist. "Not now," he agrees, giving his hips a roll that has Steve seeing stars.

Steve gasps and bucks up, breath completely leaving him when his as his erection rubs against Phil's through their jeans. He groans and grips Phil's shoulders. "Phil," he croaks, "this is gonna be over _really_ soon, and it's _not_ gonna happen while we have all our clothes on." He's 17 and horny, but he has _standards_.

Phil laughs brokenly and fumbles at the fly of Steve's jeans. Steve tries to reciprocate, but their arms keep bumping, until Phil groans in frustration, grabbing Steve's wrist and holding it to the side while he undoes his own pants one-handed. As soon as he lets go of Steve's wrist, Steve grabs Phil's waistband and shoves his pants and underwear down. They don't go far, bunching around Phil's thighs, but it's enough for Steve to finally, _finally_ get his hands on Phil's cock. It's hard, and slick, and _burning up_ , and the mere _fact_ of it against his fingers almost ends everything.

Phil hisses and bats Steve's hands away, reaching out again with his own shaking hands for Steve's jeans. He gets the button and zipper undone, but he's pinning Steve to the bed, so there's really no place to _go_. " _Shit_."

"Off," Steve says, shoving gracelessly at Phil's legs. Phil tumbles backward and barely catches himself before he falls to the floor, shimmying out of his pants and underwear, pulling off his shirt, too, while he's at it. Steve thrusts his hips up and shoves his jeans and boxers down, kicking his legs futilely to try to work them down farther. Phil laughs shakily and hauls them the rest of the way down Steve's legs before climbing back onto the bed, onto Steve.

Steve whimpers at the slide of Phil's bare skin against his legs. Phil plants his knees outside Steve's thighs and bends down, cupping Steve's face in his hands and pressing a burning kiss to his lips, licking into Steve's mouth and swallowing his gasps.

Steve grabs onto Phil's ass with both hands and pulls Phil on top of him. Phil's dick brushes Steve's on the way down, and Steve barely manages to hold it together so that's not the game-ending moment. Phil wrenches his mouth away and drops his forehead onto Steve's shoulder, gasping raggedly. "Phil," Steve pleads. "Phil, _please._ "

Phil's hand snakes down and works between their flushed bodies. He gets a grip on both their cocks, hard and dripping, and Steve writhes. Phil's hand moves frantically, without finesse, and nothing in Steve's life has _ever_ felt this good. Phil makes a pleased groan in the back of his throat and twists his hand. Steve arches his back, bites his lip so hard he tastes blood, and comes in a rush. His body spasms as Phil keeps stroking, and he flexes his fingers instinctively, not remembering til he's done it that he's still gripping Phil's ass. As soon as his fingers dig into the muscled flesh, Phil's moaning Steve's name and shuddering his release.

While Phil is in the bathroom getting cleaned up, Steve grabs his phone and types, _Not the only virgin at shield anymore_

Clint's reply is almost immediate: _thats NOT how the metorships supposed to work!!!!_ Steve's still laughing when Phil comes back.

*

Phil turns out to be awful at _Invasion Manhattan._ Somehow, he's only got one weapon--a huge, ridiculous gun no one knows how to use, that even Tony, who's allergic to subtlety, won't pick up when he plays. But Phil has it, and he feels it's got to be good for _something_ , so he keeps going up against the head alien with no backup.

Head alien has killed Phil for, like, the fifth time when something thuds against the front of the house. Everyone sits up, startled and still as spooked rabbits. They hear the tentative scrape of a key in a lock, and then they can't move fast enough.

Steve arrives first by virtue of his long legs, Pepper on his heels. Steve reaches for the knob, but before he can touch it, the door opens, and it's Tony.

He's sallow and glassy-eyed and shaking. Steve's never been happier to see him. "Tony," Steve breathes.

"Are you Steve?" Now Steve notices that someone's holding Tony up, a guy about their age with curly dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses.

At the sound of the name, Tony's eyes focus slightly. "Steve," he says. He struggles out of the other guy's grip and falls into Steve's. He's a _furnace_.

Steve hauls Tony over the threshold. He looks around and jerks his head toward the dining room. "In here."

The other guy hovers on the porch. Tony reaches toward him frantically. "Bruce." The guy--Bruce, apparently--steels his features and steps inside. Tony's eyes flutter shut.

"What's wrong with him?" Bucky asks.

Bruce shrugs. At first it looks dismissive, and Steve's anger flares. Then he sees Bruce's fingers twist around each other, and he thinks, _Helpless_. This guy cares about Tony and can't help him. That spikes fear in Steve's gut, but he's relieved that whatever Tony's been through, he wasn't alone. "Fever, exhaustion, bad water," Bruce says. "Probably other things, too, but he won't go to a hospital, and I'm not exactly a doctor."

"Yeah, he's like that," Steve says as he manhandles Tony into a dining room chair. "Our family doctor will check him." He looks up; Jarvis is standing in the doorway between dining room and kitchen. "Jarvis, please call Dr. Erskine."

"He's on his way, Master Steven."

"Hey, J," Tony mumbles, though his eyes are still closed. "How's it hangin'?"

"Very low, Master Anthony," Jarvis intones solemnly before slipping from the room.

"Bruce," Tony says, groping blindly. "Bruce, where are you?"

Bruce steps forward and takes his hand. "I'm right here, Tony."

"Tony, where have you been?" Pepper asks, pushing in under Steve's arm. Steve marvels that she can convey all of her worry and none of her anger and hurt.

Steve doesn't know what answer he expected, but it's not for Tony to open his mouth wide and weakly sing, " _Ohhhhhhh!klahoma! Where the wind comes sweepin' down the plain!"_

"You were in Oklahoma?" Clint asks, incredulous.

Bruce snorts. There's a lot of exhaustion in the sound. "Kolkata, actually."

Pepper chuckles wetly. "But Tony knows _Oklahoma!_ and not _O! Calcutta!_ " she says. Bruce smiles at her. She glares at Tony. "You went to India, asshole? As soon as you're better, I'm kicking your ass."

Tony swats irritably at Bruce and Pepper 'til they move aside. "Little brother," he whispers, pulling Steve in close. "Hey, little brother."

"Hey," Steve whispers back.

"What do you think?"

"About what?"

"Bruce."

Steve blinks. Tony's been missing a week--in India!--and _this_ is what he cares about? His eyes flick up. "I think I'm grateful he brought you home."

Tony wraps his hand around the back of Steve's neck and pulls him closer, so their foreheads touch. "Pretty sure he's my boyfriend."

A quiet laugh bubbles up in Steve. "Yeah?" he asks. Tony nods. "See the guy behind Natasha?"

Tony looks, briefly. "The one who looks like he could kill me with a pencil?"

Steve snorts. "Yeah," he says, and Tony nods. "Pretty sure he's mine."

Tony's laugh is weak, but it's a balm to Steve's ears. "Bet the old man would be _thrilled_."

Steve shrugs. He kinda thinks Dad would, but now's not the time to wade into that murk. He stays at Tony's side talking nonsense til Dr. Erskine shows up. Then he--reluctantly--lets himself be herded from the room with everyone else.

Phil moves up beside Steve, and everything in him relaxes. "You okay?" Phil asks. 

"He's _home_ ," Steve says, barely more than a sigh. Phil slips an arm around Steve's waist, and Steve leans against him, uncoiling further. He watches Pepper introducing Bruce to everyone, watches Bruce's calm, quiet poise, so different from Tony's brash confidence.

 _Different,_ he thinks. _Everything's different._ He's thought it so many times over the past week. Now, for the first time, he thinks it might be a good thing.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumbl](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/) along with me.


End file.
